Page 7 of When the Stars Rise

He’s golden, though. Skin bronzed and golden-brown hair streaked with blond. Hazel eyes, the color of the sun filtering through the branches of the pine trees.

I stumble over the lyrics and forget the words.

My heart stutters. Skips a beat. Jumps out of my chest and takes off at a full gallop.

That’s how it’s always been for me. A crazy, tongue-tied, stupid kind of love.

He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like he’s so happy to see me that he needs to smile with his whole face. My heart expands like a balloon, filling my entire chest cavity until I’m floating off the ground, and my voice sounds breathy, barely a whisper.

Like Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday to the president.

A part of me hates how strong his hold is on me, but no matter what I do and no matter what he does, I just can’t shake it.

The love of my life licks his lips and runs his hand through his sweaty hair a few times. It’s longer on top and cut shorter on the sides. His grown-up hair. When we were kids, and throughout his teens, he wore his wavy hair longer.

I think he cut it on purpose. He knew how much I loved his hair.

His eyes never leave mine, and even though there are a lot of people rushing around, working on the lighting, the sound, and the stage set, it feels like we’re in our own little bubble.

When I finish the song, I drop the mic and fly across the stage.

CHAPTER THREE

Hayley

Noah meetsme in the middle and catches me when I throw myself into his arms, practically knocking him over with my enthusiasm.

“Whoa there, Hales.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Miss me?”

Like a missing limb. It feels like years instead of months since I last saw him. I inhale his scent—musk, cedar, lime, and God, I love the way he smells. Even when he sweats, Noah still smells good.

“Pfft. I didn’t even notice you were gone. Noah who?”

He laughs and pulls me up and against him, pressing his lips against the crown of my head in the exact same spot where I had the stitches. We stay like that, holding onto each other, breathing each other in for a while, and it feels so good to be in his arms again that I never want to let go.

But eventually, I do. I pull back just enough to peer up at Noah’s face. Even though we FaceTime, seeing him up close and in person is different. My gaze flits over his face, searching forsomething, but I’m not sure what. Confirmation that he’s still in one piece? Alive. Healthy. Thriving without me.

He gives me his signature smile, slow and easy. It’s the smile of a charming heartbreaker.

He has a great mouth. Full bottom lip. A perfect Cupid’s bow. I could stare at his mouth for days. But it all screeches to a halt when I think about how many other girls those lips have been kissing.

Stupid mouth.

My eyes narrow on him, like I suddenly remember that I should be mad at him for something. I check the time on my phone. Three-fifteen. And just like that, I’ve found a reason. “How did you get here so fast?”

The smile slips. He takes a step back and runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know why you always ask me that.”

I can’t help it. Noah does this to me.

It’s over five hundred miles from Cypress Springs to New Orleans, and he texted me at ten o’clock this morning to say he was leaving. He must have been going a hundred miles per hour. Probably much faster.

His gaze moves around the stage, aiming for a distraction so we don’t have to get into the same old argument again. He takes too many risks with his life, and I hate it. I want him to live forever, not end up dead on a mountain or at the bottom of a cliff or on the side of the road somewhere.

Why can’t he understand that?

“Looks like a Baz Luhrmann set,” he says, aiming for a distraction.

“Yeah. That’s kind of what we were going for.” It’s cinematic. Faded Hollywood glamour. Towering palm trees flank both sides of the stage, and the backdrop is an Old Hollywood cityscape with gold art deco-style windows.